<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Any way the wind blows by evie_everyday</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25449139">Any way the wind blows</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/evie_everyday/pseuds/evie_everyday'>evie_everyday</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Merlin (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Pendragon Returns (Merlin), Inspired by Greek Mythology, Lots of memories, M/M, POV Merlin (Merlin), Post-Canon, and hugs, specifically the myth of orpheus and eurydice, they've both missed each other so damn much</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:47:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,277</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25449139</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/evie_everyday/pseuds/evie_everyday</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Where is he?” Merlin manages to say to the not-quite-woman in front of him. </p><p>“Albion’s greatest time of need looms on the horizon,” she says, his question apparently nothing to her. “It is time for Arthur Pendragon to rise again and fulfil his destiny. It is time for the Once and Future King to return.” </p><p>“But where is he?” Merlin presses, his age-old impatience with magic and gods and whatever-the-hell-she-is being so damn indirect with him making his voice carry across the empty shore.</p><p>“It is time,” she continues, leveling a glare that leaves his lungs empty, “for Emrys to walk the road to Avalon and retrieve Arthur from the place he has rested.” </p><p>**<br/>Post-canon, Arthur returns fic inspired by the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aithusa &amp; Merlin (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. wherevever he is wandering</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've had this idea for awhile now, and the first chapter has been sitting on my desktop for like a month. I was watching a Hadestown bootleg (don't arrrest me) and kept thinking about the image of Merlin travelling to the world of the sort-of dead to lead Arthur back to the land of the living. And this happened! I thought I might as well post it and see if people want me to finish it! I have four parts plotted. </p><p>The title and chapter titles all come from Hadestown lyrics. Part one is from "We Raise Our Cups:"</p><p>"Wherever he is wandering<br/>Alone upon the earth<br/>let all our singing follow him<br/>and bring him comfort." </p><p>Let part one commence!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’ve had your fun, my friend.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Do I know you?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m Merlin.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“So I don’t know you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yet you called me friend.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“That was my mistake.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes, I think so,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yeah. I’d never have a friend who could be such an ass.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Or I one who could be so stupid. Tell me, Merlin, do you know how to walk on your knees?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Would you like me to help you?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I wouldn’t if I were you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Why? What are you gonna do to me?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You have no idea.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Be my guest! Come on! Come on! Come on… I’ll have to put you in jail for that.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“And who do you think you are? The king?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No, I’m his son. Arthur.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>**</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin smiles as he uses his index finger to swirl the liquid in the bowl until Arthur’s face is replaced with a watery reflection of his own. Even if Arthur had been a right prat back then, that’s one of his favorite memories to return to. When Arthur was young, stupid, and unbearably proud. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Or, for lack of a better word, a clot pole.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It makes Merlin’s chest ache to think of how it was in those first days, when they were young and didn’t have the weight of the world on their shoulders. He’s lived a great many lifetimes since then, far too many than any one person should be subject to, but the emotions dragged to the surface at the thought of Arthur still manage to feel fresh, as if he’s going to walk in the door at any moment carrying a bag of groceries in one hand and Excalibur in the other. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it’s because their destinies are entwined, maybe it’s because it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Arthur</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but Merlin has never forgotten the way Arthur could make him feel. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>His coffee suddenly seems unappetizing.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>For the first long, awful months after he’d sent Arthur to Avalon, Merlin had thought the greatest curse of immortality was that it was a life of constant loss. To be immortal was to watch his loved ones grow closer to passing on with every breath in the knowledge he might never rest with them. It was watching the ways he knew be forgotten to minds of those born into a world he barely recognized as his own. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It was a life of things falling away, sinking into a place so deep and dark it was impossible to breach. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>For those months, Merlin had laid in his bed for hours, dreaming up ways to stop himself from losing anything the way he had lost Arthur. The earth called him Emrys, and then it had ripped away his other half without mercy. It tore away the man he was created to protect. It left him purposeless, other than to wait. To wait without any idea what exactly for or how long he would be waiting for.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It made him angry, and in his anger, he was powerful.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs as his awareness of the discontent that had been lodged in his soul for so long surges with a severity he hasn’t known for a long time. Some days are easier than others, and today he’s woken with a heaviness in his gut that nearly leaves him breathless. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The alarm on his phone blares, startling Merlin enough that he nearly knocks over his coffee. As he reaches to turn it off, the unsettled feeling in his gut only grows stronger. He wonders for a moment if he should go down to the lake, just in case. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head as if to dislodge the thought from his mind and sets his mug in the sink. If there was something to be seen, he would be certain of it. A sigh filled with an ancient grief escapes his lips, and he has to rest a hand on the counter so that he does not sink to the ground in his weariness. He slips on his shoes and casts a glamour over his appearance. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t bother to lock the door behind him when he steps outside. Cool mist has settled over the land and obscures his little house from the view of anyone that might bother to break into it.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>As if it can understand him, the mist swirls around his head and raises goosebumps on his skin. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Your home is safe in my hands</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it says, and the comfort manages to pull a smile from Merlin. He sets off for the bookshop where he works without the vigor that should fill a body so young. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>One of the games he’s played over the centuries is to see how many derivations of his name he can think of to use once he needs to find a new persona to inhabit for that lifetime. A decade or so ago he’d settled on Rhys for the 21</span>
  <span>st</span>
  <span> century. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Something really does feel different about this day, and Merlin has to shove his heart back down into his chest as he crosses the dirt road that leads from the shores of the lake to the village. He has spent far too many days believing </span>
  <em>
    <span>this is the day</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he is not going to let incessant hope ravage the peacefulness of his Saturday morning.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It is not going to be today, and it is not going to be tomorrow. Albion is in no danger, so it is not yet time for Arthur to return.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The thought feels clinical, like something Merlin has repeated to the point of meaninglessness. The feeling continues to weave itself under his skin until every nerve is on edge. A passing bicyclist shouts at him when he drifts into the street, and he is snapped back to attention. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It gnaws at him as he passes familiar shop windows and pulls his set of keys from his pocket. There are only three: one for his house, which he seldom uses; one for the cabinet containing what he’d salvaged from the Camelot vaults before they fell; and one that unlocks the door to the bookshop.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin has worked at the shop for almost four years now. His Saturday morning ritual of opening up helps stave off some of the nervous energy that has insisted on plaguing him today. The lock clicks and a bell announces his entry into the store. When he’d first begun working at the shop, he found the sound to be a nuisance, but it’s now a comforting reminder of the peace he feels here. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He latches the door to a hook on the wall so the only barrier to entry is the screen door. The shop is as tidy as he left it the night before, but he still walks to the front display and neatens some of the books before hanging his messenger bag from the hook behind the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It’s late enough that the sun is partly risen in the sky and he doesn’t have to turn the fluorescent on in lieu of the sunlight. Recently, he’s been finding himself waking when it’s still dark so he can watch the sunrise. After living for what he figures must be a million of them, he finds it strange that they now leave him breathless, but it’s nice enough to have something feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>new </span>
  </em>
  <span>after so many years of monotony.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He settles in by the counter and sees a hastily scribbled note stuck to the cash register. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>New summer reading shipment in back. Feel free to unload :) -Maya</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He rolls his eyes. “Of course I’m meant to unload it. Of course she couldn’t do it herself.” Even if the words are annoyed, he doesn’t sound at all bitter saying them. He won’t admit it, but one of his favorite parts of the job is unloading the shipments of new books onto the shelves. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>There’s something sacred in the act of unboxing a new book, he thinks as he carries the box out of the little office at the back of the store and sets it on the floor next to the empty summer reading display. Before he can continue the thought, he’s distracted by the title on the shipping label. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Frankenstein</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They’d been running out of copies of the novel all summer. One of the English teachers at the little school down the road assigned it for the students to read while on break. Merlin likes to say it’s his fault when reluctant teenagers come into the store, since it was after a conversation with him that the teacher had decided to make them read it.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It amuses Merlin to no end, watching the world cement books into the fabric of society. Of course, he’s always sad to watch some authors very dear to him pass into obscurity. There are a great many people who have never gotten the credit they deserve. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It’s pleased him to see </span>
  <em>
    <span>Frankenstein</span>
  </em>
  <span> become popular again in the past few decades. When he first read it, he found himself oddly empathetic of Victor. He had spent the months after Arthur’s  death lost within himself, and he understood the mania of trying to control life and death. Now, he finds Victor’s denial of any guilt repulsive, and any sympathy is begrudging. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>With a quick incantation, he undoes the zip ties on the box. He thumbs through a copy of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Frankenstein</span>
  </em>
  <span> before setting it on the display. Of the many, many books he’d read over the course of his life, this is one of his favorites. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The bell rings merrily, and he sets it down. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Morning, Rhys!” Maya says as she pulls the screen door shut behind her. She’s carrying a paper-wrapped package and struggles to untangle her purse from her coat collar. Why she’s wearing a coat, Merlin can’t say. Summer has yet to give way to autumn, and even the cool air off of the lake is hardly worth the extra layers. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He’s known Maya for almost five years now. Her grandmother has lived in the village for as long as Merlin can remember, and when she got sick, Maya came to help her. She’d taken a liking to the place, and Merlin met her when he worked in the tiny library tucked into the side of the town hall. They got to talking, and less than a year later took over the café together.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“My lady,” he replies to her initial greeting, extending his hands to take the package from her. She laughs at his familiar greeting and takes a moment to set her things next to his. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I see you’ve found the shipment.” Merlin gives her a mock angry look. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Only because </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> didn’t have the courtesy to put it out last night.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Maya laughs again. She’s one of the most pleasant people Merlin has ever known, and he can’t help but crack a smile at the sound of it ringing through the store. “I had places to go, people to see.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Did that include robbing a bank with your girlfriend?” Merlin asks, and Maya sputters in protest. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. This is getting old. How was I supposed to know she’d go and rob a bank the day after I went out with her?” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin shakes his head and sighs. “It’s in the eyes, Maya, always in the eyes. You’re far too trusting.” He struggles to undo some of the ties on the second box of books, and Maya tosses him her closed pocketknife. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You sound like my grandfather,” she says, and Merlin laughs to himself. If only she knew. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He cuts the plastic zip ties and hands back the knife. “I suppose telling you not to throw knives would only further that perception?” She accepts it with a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Pretty and smart.” She flicks open the knife and delicately pulls at the twine until it breaks. The book under the paper is leather-bound, and Maya frowns at it. “This isn’t what I ordered.” Merlin cranes his neck to look at the cover. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>The Mistakes of Rosewater</span>
  </em>
  <span>? What kind of a title is that?” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He knows too late he’s made a mistake because Maya is already staring at him. “Of course you speak German.” When he looks back to the cover, it’s unmistakably in German. At his surprised look, Maya shakes her head. “How the hell do you pick up languages like you don’t even realize?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>truth</span>
  </em>
  <span> is that Merlin stopped needing to learn languages a long time ago. He’d realized one day that he could understand languages he’d never heard before without a problem, and while it is slightly alarming to consider how he’d gained the ability, he has found it useful enough.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But to say that would only make Maya think he was joking, so he settles for a smile and a shrug. “A magician never reveals his secrets.” His magic hums in protest to being used as the butt of a joke, but he shrugs off the feeling and flips through the book. “What were you meant to get?” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Maya sighs. “Mrs. Saunders—remember her? Sweet old redhead, likes to come in Tuesdays before her sewing club—she asked if I could order a rare-print copy of a journal written by some vaguely famous relative of hers. I had to special order it.” She takes the book back. “I’ll call and get it sorted. There’s a woman coming ‘round ten to interview for Cole’s job. Sounded real sweet on the phone. Could you deal with her if she comes by?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin nods. Cole has been working in the café for the summer but is going back to uni in a few weeks and needs to be replaced. Maya had joked with him not to get too attached when they’d first hired him, since he’d be leaving in a few months, but Merlin still found himself saddened by their parting. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He likes to blame how easily he takes to certain people on his magic. Sometimes, the way someone quirks their eyebrow or smiles crookedly reminds him enough of someone he’d known in Camelot that his magic is instantly drawn to them. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Cole had been one of those people. There was something in the way he held his silences, the quiet contentment that he worked in that reminded Merlin of Lancelot so many years ago. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a noise behind him, and he turns around to see if the woman’s at the door. When he sees nothing, his nervous energy surges. He settles back into arranging the books, but then he swears there is whispering in his ear. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He focuses on the sound, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to reach out to the sounds, but the more he tries, the more the sound pulls away from him. There are individual voices he can almost pick out, but they quickly fade into the distance as if they’re running away from him. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Then it’s suddenly as if they were never there at all. When he turns back to the display, his hands are shaking. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He jumps when the bell rings a few minutes later. This time, there is a young woman at the door. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry if I startled you,” she says quickly, and Merlin immediately likes her. There’s something in her eyes, in the way they shine, that remind him of Gwen when she’d first come up to him in the stocks so many years ago. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no trouble.” He sets down the last few copies of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Frankenstein</span>
  </em>
  <span> and holds out a hand. “Rhys.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Sam.” She looks around the shop fondly. “Lovely place, this. I’m meant to meet with a woman named Maya about a job?” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin gives her an apologetic smile. “Afraid you’re stuck with me for the moment. Maya told me you’d be coming by.” He sees the insignia on her jumper. “Are you in school?” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Sam nods. “Grad student. I’m studying history.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Why history?” Merlin asks her, but he knows the answer from the way her lips twitch in a smile and her eyes brighten at the mention of it. He’s gotten good at reading people, in his time, and he can read her easily enough. She’s an old soul. A kindred one. He plans to hire her before asking anything related to the job. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She speaks for a moment about how history is present in every facet of life, and how every inch of the world is imbued with stories. It’s a good answer. Merlin knows better than anyone the way the world is filled with untold stories. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Maya returns as Merlin offers her the job. She shows Sam around the café, and Merlin settles into his routine. The morning is swept away with customers and teaching Sam the ropes, and Merlin can almost forget about the voices that weren’t really there. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>At one point, Sam and Maya talk about a class she’s taken in undergrad about music of camaraderie, whatever the hell that means. Merlin is struck with a memory of Arthur when he was still the prince, and he accompanied the knights to a tavern one winter night and was dared to join in on the singing of a ridiculous song that Merlin had been half-certain Gwaine was making up on the spot.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It was the only time Merlin had ever heard him join in on any singing, and he’d looked so carefree when he finally relented that Merlin could still remember half of the song’s words.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Ooh, Sam, you’re in for a treat. Merlin does a storytelling thing every Saturday at noon. People love it,” Maya says, drawing Merlin out of his thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Sam looks to Merlin. “My friend, the one who told me about the job, mentioned that. Said it’s loads of fun.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin smiles. “I hope so.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Around noon, a stream of customers enter the shop and congregate around the café portion, ordering drinks and things and making overall much more noise than had been present the rest of the morning.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Rather than being annoyed, Merlin gives them all a familiar smile and unlocks the cabinet behind the counter. The cabinet is mostly filled with little things, like specially ordered items and paperwork Maya can’t fit in the office, but Merlin reaches for the leather-bound spiral notepad. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The material is soft in his hands, and when he closes the cabinet again, he flips to the page where a small ribbon is tied. Scribbled on the pages of the notebook are the names of all the people who have attended his “storytelling Saturday” lunches over the past four years.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It had started when he and Maya had first opened the shop. As they were unpacking boxes and dusting and assembling bookcases, Merlin had described to her the first time he entered a bookshop. Leaving out, of course, the fact that it had been back in the 16</span>
  <span>th</span>
  <span> century. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You tell stories well,” she had told him as she tried to shake off some of the plaster that had dribbled onto her face from the ceiling. He’d laughed at her then, but a month or two later, he found himself telling stories from World War II his “grandfather” had told him to a few enraptured customers on a slow Saturday afternoon. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Lizzy and Olympia. His original audience.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They’d come back the week after with a few friends, asking to hear more stories, and a tradition was born.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin flips to the beginning of the book and scans the list of names. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>This is the kind of town where you either stay forever or come up for holiday, and it shows in the way there are the same names repeated week after week and then a few names that crop up for a few months every year. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Half of the regulars are already here, even though the official time on the poster is one p.m. and it’s only twelve-twenty. Merlin sets out the book of names on the table in the front of the store and puts out the sign that says “Let us know your name!” He walks over to the café. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Mind if I borrow Sam?” he asks Maya sweetly, and she raises an eyebrow. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Throwing her to the wolves already?” she replies, just as sweetly, but she’s loud enough that the group settled at the café tables overhears.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d hardly call us wolves, Maya,” Olympia says, and Merlin grins to himself. Even after all these years, he secretly favorites the original few that came to hear his stories before they had a poster in the window advertising it as an event. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Olympia’s right, Maya. They’re more like wyvern.” He adds a hint of mystique into his voice that he knows will pique Sam’s curiosity. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s a wyvern?” she asks, right on cue, and Merlin smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Wyverns are nasty little buggers. They’re like the tiny cousins of dragons, but much meaner and like to fight dirty when they get the chance. They’ve got two-legs, instead of four, like dragons do, and they like to use their tails to get a jab at you.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Maya shakes her head, holding back a laugh, and Sam looks interested. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you going to tell a fairy story today, then?” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin smiles. “I’d hardly call it a fairy story. There won’t be any fairies involved in this dark tale of venturing into the Perilous Lands.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Over the next half-hour, he introduces Sam to the regulars and gets acquainted with a few new faces. He never decides what stories to tell until it’s right against one o’clock and he’s settled himself sitting on the counter, everyone’s eyes watching his expectantly. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>If he’s honest, Merlin tries to tell his stories the way he remembers Gwaine telling his: a blend of action, joking around, and his commentary all mashed into an engaging mess of a tale. And Merlin has plenty of source material to choose from. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But today, he feels nostalgic, and Arthur has been clouding the edges of his vision all day. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“There was a bridge, once,” he starts, and suddenly it feels as though even the walls have quieted to listen to his soft voice. “It stretched across a small ravine in a forest not far from here. There was a man that stood, guarding the bridge. In all honesty, he was a rather irritating man. Liked to be vague, mostly unhelpful, that sort of thing. But he knew that one day, three men would come to the bridge on a quest that would restore the land he once inhabited. And so, he waited.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“In another place, not too far from here, there lived a young prince. He was rather insufferable. Could barely dress himself.” Merlin bit back a smile. “But he was a good man, under it all.” Merlin pauses, because talking about Arthur can sometimes make him forget he’s telling a story. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>After taking a breath, he continues, “And it was tradition that every prince in this kingdom go on a solitary quest to prove themselves worthy of the throne. The solitary part was very important, you see. Alone and unaided,” he half-mocks, knowing his audience doesn’t quite get the joke. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“But he was no ordinary prince. And this was no ordinary quest.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “You see, this prince was destined to become the greatest king his kingdom would ever know. And the quest he envisioned, of going to the Perilous Lands—which, let me tell you, are rather unpleasant—and retrieving the trident of the legendary Fisher King, had been written in the fabric of destiny since the beginning of time.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He goes on to tell the story of the prince and his conspiring sister, and the protective manservant that went after him with the help of his scoundrel friend. He tells of wyvern and Fisher Kings and destiny, of how the servant and prince worked together to complete the quest even when the servant would get no credit for what he did.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“And as they parted ways, with the scoundrel banned from the prince’s kingdom, and the prince and servant returning to the kingdom that did not allow them to be equals, the servant thought back to the words of the man on the bridge.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Strength, Courage, and Magic have arrived, he had said. The servant knew he was Magic. He was born of it. The prince, as snobbish and irritating as he could be, was the most courageous man he’d ever known. Together, the two of them did great deeds to keep their kingdom safe. And it was the scoundrel, Strength, that allowed them to succeed.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>As he takes a sip of water from the glass situated next to him, bowing to signal the story’s completion, the applause makes him grin and blush a little. Even after doing it for so long, it always embarrasses him a little to have people clap for him like he’s done something particularly impressive.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It’s almost two, somehow. Merlin slides off the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>People come up to talk to him as he settles back in at the cash register. Their sales are always best on Saturday afternoons, when Merlin’s just told a story, but Merlin finds himself half-distracted as people talk to him.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The disorientation only grows worse as the customers slowly trickle out the door. When it’s just him, Sam, and Maya left in the shop, the voice that hammered the inside of his head earlier returns suddenly, and he finds his vision blurring. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He sucks in a breath and grips the counter, trying to keep himself steady as the voice radiates through his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>There is no mistaking that voice. No one says his name quite like Arthur, and he’d be damned if that wasn’t Arthur’s voice in his ear. He hadn’t imagined that. He knows what it is like to imagine voices, and he would stake his life on the fact that the voice he heard was not in his head. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Then all the whispers from earlier are descending on him again, but this time, it feels like they are screaming. His head feels like it is trapped underwater, and every attempt he makes to breathe only make the screams louder. He flails in place, the noise seeming to fill his lungs and penetrate his skin to the bone, but then they’ve gone again and he’s left gasping for air. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You alright, Rhys?” His knuckles are white on the countertop as he gives Maya a weak nod. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Swallowed funny. I’m fine now.” She gives him a slightly concerned look but turns back to Sam at the espresso maker.  When he’s still hunched over a minute later, she looks up at him again.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She comes over. “Take the rest of the day off.” When Merlin protests, she gives him a stern look. “You’ve been here every day this week. Take a minute to relax,” she urges. Merlin wrinkles his nose.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Working here is relaxing.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Maya sighs, the worry obvious in her eyes. “Rhys, you look exhausted. Go home, get some rest. The books will be here tomorrow.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin knows there’s no point in arguing, so he flashes a smile and goes to grab his things. “Thanks, Maya,” he says to mask his disappointment. She doesn’t notice the facade. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>This time, the bell sounds almost sad. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>**</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, old friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The cave housing Aithusa is cleverly masqueraded by a mix of well-placed boulders and protective wards. The trek there always leaves Merlin with an inexplicable number of leaves in his hair. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She slinks out of the shadows, her pupils quickly shrinking as the light hits her eyes. It still pains Merlin to see her so content in the darkness when she should be lounging in the heat of the sun. The two years she spent with Morgana in darkness nearly destroyed her, and in the hundreds of years since, she still finds no comfort in the light of the sun.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Aithusa,” Merlin says affectionately. She lingers in the sun a moment, lost in thought, before drawing back into the safety of the shadows. Merlin conjures a small light so he’s not totally blind and joins her. He reaches out to touch the scales on her spine, the dark metal he’d once used as a brace gleaming through the dull white. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Healing her body was the project that kept him sane, when Camelot had fallen. She is the only piece of that life he has left to cling to.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You seem contemplative.” Her voice is old, and rattling, and sometimes Merlin fears she is going to leave him soon. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs. He feels like he’s done that a lot recently. “Today has been a contemplative day.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Aithusa arranges herself on the ground so he can come sit by her. “Is that why you’ve come to visit?” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin sits so he can rest against her. “No, I came to spend time with a friend.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The greatest regret Merlin has (not the </span>
  <em>
    <span>greatest</span>
  </em>
  <span>, of course, but the thing he feels right now to be the greatest tragedy) is that he never had a chance to introduce Arthur and Aithusa. Merlin would have given anything to watch Arthur look at her with wide, slightly terrified eyes before she trotted over to nuzzle him and he absolutely fell in love with her. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They could have argued about whether Aithusa would say “Merlin” or “Arthur” first only to have her fly past both of them with a cry of “Gwen!” or “Gaius!” instead. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Aithusa rearranges herself so her head is resting on the cool ground and Merlin’s arm is draped over her head. “You’re thinking of Arthur, aren’t you?” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you always know?” Merlin asks, trying to mask the sadness in his voice. Aithusa presses her head up against his arm in a show of comfort.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Because your magic always feels so…lonely, when you do. Like an amputee trying to grasp something only to realize their fingers aren’t there anymore.” Merlin suddenly feels exhausted, inside and out, and curls further into her. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose an amputee would get used to it after a thousand years,” Merlin says. Bitterness seeps into his voice, and the guilt that always follows snapped statements like this one washes over him like a tidal wave. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Aithusa senses this. She pulls Merlin in tighter, and they sit for a long time in silence. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Merlin speaks again. “I feel as though there is a stirring in the earth. Something is coming, Aithusa, something important.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Aithusa makes a sound almost akin to humming. “I would caution you against feeling hope, Merlin, but I believe I’ve felt it as well.” It still unsettles Merlin to think of the way voices screamed helplessly into his ears back at the shop. For a moment he thinks of the dorocha, back in the time of Camelot.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>With a whisper of guidance, he conjures little specks of light that rearrange themselves into pretty patterns against the dark backdrop of the cave. The weariness subsides for a moment as Aithusa sighs in pleasure at the sight. Merlin imagines showing Arthur all the beautiful things magic can do. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Aithusa nudges his arm. “You’re thinking of him again.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin lets the lights fizzle out gently until they are nearly in total darkness. “He has been on my mind all day. I—I really think it might be soon, Aithusa.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Or perhaps you are just lonely.” She sounds lonely herself as she says it, and Merlin feels desperately sorry he has not been able to find her a companion in his long years of searching. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps,” he finally answers her, and their silent suffering becomes almost suffocating. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Could you show me a memory of him?” Aithusa asks out of nowhere, and Merlin is only too happy to fill the silence.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“What would you like to see?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin has not endeavored to capture every memory he has ever had, but he has sought to keep the ones dearest to him. And if that includes trivial moments like Arthur refusing to get out of bed in the morning or arguing with him on a hunt, well, they’re Merlin’s memories and he may do what he likes with them.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Aithusa seems to hear his thoughts and gives as close as a dragon can to a wry smile. “Something silly.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin pushes himself off of the ground and crosses the cavern floor until he finds the telltale sheen of water dripping down the wall. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>With a whisper, he places a hand on the wall and breathes life into the thin coat of water. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he’s just feeling particularly reminiscent today, but he decides to draw out the memory of his second time meeting Arthur. It’s his memory, so he has to do the voices for both of them since Aithusa can’t hear inside his head.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“How’s your knee-walking coming along? Aw, don’t run away!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“From you?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, thank God. I thought you were deaf as well as dumb.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Look, I’ve told you you’re an ass. I just didn’t realize you were a royal one. Oh, what are you going to do? You’ve got your daddy’s men to protect you?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I could take you apart with one blow.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I could take you apart with less than that.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You sure? Here you go big man. Come on then. I warn you. I’ve been trained to kill since birth.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Wow. And how long have you been training to be a prat?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You can’t address me like that.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sorry. How long have you been training to be a prat, my lord?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Aithusa breaks into raspy laughter where she stands behind Merlin. Despite the fact that she’s far smaller than Kilgarrah ever was, her laugh fills up the cavern the same way Kilgarrah’s always had. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“That never grows tiring,” she says with laughter still brightening her voice. Merlin smiles and removes his hand from the wall. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“It still shocks me he managed to outgrow his idiocy, at least a little.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Aithusa settles back into the corner of the cave. “I hope to meet him, one day. When he returns.” The fear that she will not live long enough to see that day takes hold of Merlin for another long moment, and his smile wavers. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“He’ll love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>A frown appears in her eyes. “I think he may not forgive me for the things I did when I was young.” They do not speak of Morgana often. Merlin’s regret and Aithusa’s grief for her companion have held their tongues most days. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“That was a long time ago. He will forgive you.” And if he sounds desperate as he says it, Aithusa says nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>**</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cool breeze is drifting through his open windows when Merlin returns home. The sky has grown dark, the moon rising slowly past the trees, and he takes a moment to breathe in the freshness of the night air. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>This, too, has felt crisper recently. He wonders if it is just a relief to him when night comes so he might drift away into silent sleep, but his dreams are rarely peaceful. It is more like he anticipates the coming of night because it allows the earth to be cleansed of the day and prepare to usher in a new one.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin decides to make himself supper regardless of how little he wants to. Once he’s set a pot of soup on the stove to simmer, he wanders to the part of the house that holds some of the things he’s collected over the years.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The shipment of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Frankenstein</span>
  </em>
  <span>s drives Merlin to the boxes containing some of his favorite letters. He’s glad he learned how to preserve things made of paper so early on in his life. For a brief time, he’d worked in a museum archive, and it struck him that he might have the greatest collection of letters of anyone in the world when he saw the sorry state of the museum’s “pristine collection.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Rifling through without any real goal in mind, he occasionally stops to read over a quip he finds particularly funny or a statement he still finds profound.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>After a few minutes, he waves his hand to wordlessly set all the boxes back in their proper place. His eyes are drawn to the pouch on the mantle, and then he can’t help but cross over to it. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It feels almost reverent when he pulls on the drawstring and reaches inside. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The sigil still looks the same as it did a millennia ago, when Arthur gave it to him. His fingers trace over the engraved bird, and suddenly there’s a surge of warmth in his hands. He nearly drops it, breath hitching when he picks it up and it’s cool once more. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It’s his imagination. It has to be.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers his soup and replaces the sigil on the mantle so he can return to the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can make it to the stove, there’s a sudden roaring in his ears, and every inch of his body is screaming at him. A sense of urgency overtakes him, like there is something he must do now and nothing matters except to do it.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin, Merlin, Merlin</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t breathe, he can’t move, he can’t think, and his magic is dragging him out the door. He leaves the cottage he has lived in for so long and knows when he returns, everything will be different.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>His soup is left forgotten on the stove as he stumbles towards the shores of Avalon.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It seems a lifetime and a moment until he’s pulling himself over the concrete wall that blocks the lake shore from public access. The wards he set up years ago thrum with anticipatory energy as he passes through them, seeming to know </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’s time it’s time it’s time</span>
  </em>
  <span> even as he catches his foot on the ledge and scrapes his knuckles to catch himself. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin has not realized how lost his magic has felt until this moment, when it feels so hopeful and joyous and excited that the jadedness it long ago took hold of begins to dissolve. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>There is a woman looking out onto the lake, her dark hair almost glowing in the moonlight. Merlin instantly understands that she holds within her unspeakable power, bears an unspeakable burden. For some reason she is barefoot, and the sand under her feet is soon under Merlin’s as he is drawn to her. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Very little has the power to scare Merlin after so many years on the earth, but when she turns and her eyes meet his, there is a hollowness in them that leaves him cold. They seem to look past the flesh he inhabits and see every deed he has ever done and every thought he has ever had laid down in front of her.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Her lips curl up into a gruesome imitation of a smile and then part to greet him. For a moment, the coldness is replaced with overwhelming terror. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Emrys.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And as the name that has not been uttered in hundreds of years falls from her lips, Merlin crumples to the ground. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. the long way down</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Merlin meets the keeper of Avalon and makes the journey to find Arthur.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW for mentions of suicidal ideation on Merlin's parts during a few of the memory scenes. Nothing graphic, but stay safe!! </p><p>Chapter title comes from "Wait for Me" from hadestown:<br/>"How to get to hadestown<br/>you'll have to take the long way down<br/>through the underground, undercover at night<br/>laying low, stayin out of sight<br/>ain't no compass, brother, ain't no map<br/>just a telephone wire and a railroad track<br/>keep on walkin and don't look back<br/>til you get to the bottomland"</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>“I had no idea you were so keen to die for me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Trust me, I can hardly believe it myself.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m glad you’re here, Merlin.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>**</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Emrys.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The woman calls his name again, but this time the words are accompanied by fingers pulling his chin up to meet her gaze. For a moment, they are both silent, but then Merlin remembers why he is here and pulls his head away from her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?” The woman’s smile returns, and Merlin is disarmed enough to stand on the defensive.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I am the keeper of Avalon. Kairon.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Shit. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>This is really happening. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin can’t think of anything to say, his throat tightening around his voice until he’s so lightheaded he might fall again. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been—it’s been so </span>
  <em>
    <span>long</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Apparently he says that out loud, because the woman says, “And you have waited well, Emrys.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin’s magic screams at him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>focus</span>
  </em>
  <span> because Arthur is going to be by his side again and it won’t do to be hyperventilating like an idiot when he returns. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can ask where Arthur is, the woman looks out on the lake again. When he’s so close, Merlin can see the moonlight burning away her skin and leaving only a skull in its place. He swallows back nausea as she turns back to him, her face once again vaguely human. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Where is he?” Merlin manages to say to the not-quite-woman in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Albion’s greatest time of need looms on the horizon,” she says, his question apparently nothing to her. “It is time for Arthur Pendragon to rise again and fulfil his destiny. It is time for the Once and Future King to return.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“But where is he?” Merlin presses, his age-old impatience with magic and gods and whatever-the-hell-she-is being so damn indirect with him making his voice carry across the empty shore.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“It is time,” she continues, leveling a glare that leaves his lungs empty, “for Emrys to walk the road to Avalon and retrieve Arthur from the place he has rested.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Anger surges in Merlin’s chest. “No one told me I must retrieve Arthur from Avalon!” He really is sick of being kept so in the dark. Frankly, after so many years as the sole keeper of magic in the world, he thinks he should feel like he understands at least a little about what he is keeping. But no, because minor goddesses keep thinking it’s absolutely fine to just spring things like this on him, completely unprepared. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he takes a solidifying breath and meets her eyes with a renewed strength. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“What must I do?” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The woman beckons him forward. She walks until the soft tide of the lake washes over her feet, almost hypnotizing in its rhythm. She kneels and rests her hands on the water for a long, silent moment. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Then the water under her hands pushes away in small, delicate waves. Instead of crashing back into the lake, however, they climb higher and higher until the damp mud of the lake floor is exposed and the waves twist upwards towards the sky. The layer of water is so thin it almost looks like glass, and Merlin has the urge to reach out and run his hands through it. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Once the water stills, the muddy earth descends past the newly-formed gateway and forms a dark passage beneath the lake.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Only those who are not mortal may cross the path between the world of the living and Avalon. There are few such creatures left on this earth, Emrys, and if Albion’s doom is to be thwarted, you must succeed in bringing back Arthur.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“If you cannot be mortal, how will Arthur make the return with me?” Merlin asks, but he knows the answer already.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“His time in Avalon has stripped away his mortality, Emrys. You were never meant to be alone in your immortality.” Before Merlin can ask what the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> that means, she is standing again. Her eyes have become pained, like the air is burning her lungs. “I cannot stay long in this realm, Emrys. You must make the journey now.” She raises her palm in front of her, and a small blue light emerges. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin sucks in a breath at the display of magic. For so long, he has been alone and seeing the magic of another brings tears to his eyes. The little light hovers by his hand, and he has to resist the urge to reach out and stroke it. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The woman drops her hand, and she is no longer a terror to behold. Instead, ancient sadness writes its story on her face. Merlin feels as though he understands her.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“This light will guide your way. I’m afraid it’s all I can give you, Emrys. While you are on the road, you must keep your eyes fixed ahead. Do not look to those who will call to you from the waters, or you will not be able to resist them. You cannot be lost to the lake.”  She gives him one last look. “I will meet you in Avalon.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Then she is gone, beckoned back into the loving arms of the earth, and Merlin is left alone at the entryway. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The blue light drifts through the air until it’s resting at the entrance. It hovers in place, bouncing slightly as Merlin takes a moment to process what just happened. He allows himself twenty seconds to stand uselessly gaping at the gateway, and then he steels himself. He is nothing if not willing to throw himself into danger under hardly optimal circumstances, so he follows the little light past the water crowning the passage and into the darkness below. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as his feet touch the mucky lake floor, he is swallowed into it, dragged down into the earth with far less grace than the woman before him. For a moment, water crashes around his ears, and he feels like he’s drowning, but then his feet reach solid ground again. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Even in the darkness, he can tell he’s in a narrow passage. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Hardly a road,” he mutters to no one, “more like a bike lane.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The light calls him forward again, and Merlin feels trapped by an entire lake’s worth of water. He knows he’s probably imagining the thinness of the air, so he takes a deep, fortifying breath and sets off after the light.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It’s difficult to tell how far he’s gone in the darkness, but his legs soon begin to ache. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He walks, and walks, and walks, with nothing but the sound of his footsteps on the muddy stone and his own thoughts occupying his mind. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He will see Arthur soon. He can feel in his heart that he will, no matter what he faces on this road. He could spend days, weeks, months walking, but he is going to see Arthur again. He has to. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>There is a faint buzz in the air of the passage, but not in a way that makes it feel vibrant. It feels overbearing, like Merlin is not supposed to be here.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Passage is hardly an adequate name for whatever this road is. Everything around him feels sentient, like the water carries more memories than even Merlin does. He’s spent centuries pouring his own memories into water; the memory in the waters of Avalon is foreign, unpleasant. Not unfamiliar, but still suffocating. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>As he continues walking, he distracts himself from the ache in his legs by humming. At first, it’s nothing in particular, just notes arranged in a pleasing pattern, but then it turns into the song Merlin had remembered so vividly in the shop. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t quite remember the lyrics.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Marianne of Mercia, she ran to the war front,” he murmurs, the words sounding breathless as he squints, trying to see if there’s any sign of how much further the path stretches on. “The lads were gone, so she went on, to see if she could join ‘em. Marianne, she—”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Earl.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The water changes, suddenly. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin is no longer surrounded by unfamiliar memory, but his own. He’s stopped walking without realizing it, and the damp air around him pulses with longing to remember. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Earl</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>His magic feels different here. Not suppressed, exactly, but pressurized, like it’s being squeezed into a small container. Some leaks out and the water becomes alight with his memory.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin remembers very little about the night he met Jon, because he had been very, very drunk. The only time he really ever got drunk was around the anniversary of Arthur’s death, because he’d always begin thinking about Arthur and how Arthur had spent years believing Merlin spent every night in the tavern and was a raging alcoholic, and then he’d think, why not honor his obliviousness by getting royally smashed instead of thinking about him anymore?</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Hence, sitting on the shores of Avalon, pretending he wasn’t sitting where Arthur had literally died a fuck-ton of years before. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers thinking that his trousers were getting wet because it had rained that afternoon and sand was rather absorbent, but the alcohol kept him warm enough that he wasn’t bothered by it. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He shouted at the lake and the gods and anything that would listen, really, because then he can remember feeling his throat hurt and being thrown back into the first few weeks after Arthur’s death. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers jumping a little when a voice behind him asked if he was alright, thinking somewhere in his drunken mind that maybe Arthur had the courtesy to return at last. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You aren’t Arthur,” he said when faced with a man who was clearly not Arthur, and said man shook his head.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Jonathan. You alright, mate?” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“My friend is being stubborn and not returning from the dead,” Merlin recalls saying, and he can see the man’s face crumple in sympathy before sitting next to him on the beach and staying until Merlin was ready to leave.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin finally gets control of his magic and pulls it back in, gasping for air. He doesn’t have time to get his bearings before a quiet voice curls around his mind. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, Earl</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>His magic tugs again, but Merlin yanks it back. Instead of getting lost in memory, he decides he should probably just say something. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Jon.” It seems like a neutral enough response, but the voice hums in displeasure. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s been a long time, Earl</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Didn’t you miss me?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin’s stomach churns. “Of course. Of course I’ve missed you.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Something almost like laughter echoes in his head. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m glad to hear that. You know, since you never think about me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You know when I think about you?” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The laugh sounds again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m dead, Merlin. Does it sound like I have much else to do?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin shrugs. “I guess not.” Even though he feels like Jon (or whatever form of Jon is here) is moving, his voice remains firmly rooted inside his head. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The little blue light circles Merlin’s waist and bumps against his fingers before darting forward again. Merlin licks his lips nervously. “Look, Jon, I gotta keep going, alright? I’m sorry.” As soon as he takes a step forward, there’s an awful scream that leaves him clutching at his ears. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, no, don’t go, you can’t go!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jon’s voice begs him, and Merlin knows no matter how badly he wants to stay, he can’t. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he says quickly as he keeps walking and Jon keeps screaming, “I have to keep going. I have to get Arthur.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You didn’t make it in time</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jon screams, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you were supposed to make it in time. You never make it in time</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Merlin apologizes again, but he keeps moving forward. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You were supposed to save me! I wasn’t supposed to die in a car wreck. You should’ve gotten to me sooner!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, I’m sorry,” Merlin begs, and when he starts running, the yelling crescendos until he can’t even hear his own thoughts over the voice screaming in his head. Tears start streaming down his face at some point, but he makes himself keep running. His vision starts going white at the volume of Jon’s yells, brighter and brighter until Merlin is sure the voice will crack open his skull and stream into the passage, but then Jon’s voice disappears and Merlin is left only with shaking hands and ringing ears. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>For a long moment, he stands totally still, his fingers pressing against the wet skin of his cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” he says quietly, nodding to himself, “okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The little light returns to him. It ghosts over his hands and arms, leaving the hair there standing on edge. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin nods again. “Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He knows logically that continuing to walk will probably mean more people from his past yelling at him. He knows logically that there is not going to be a way around this, that to get to Arthur he must face the voices of those who left him behind.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But illogically, he is filled with the sudden and awful hope that maybe all of this has been a silly nightmare, and now it’s time for him to see everyone he’s loved again, even if they are pissed at him for being alive while they’re off being dead.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can let himself dwell in the hope, though, the air tightens around him, and his magic pushes out of his fingertips as he hears another voice call out to him. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mercer</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t have time to be dragged into his memories, but it happens before he can stop it.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers seeing her for the first time across the crowded ballroom floor, her smile reminding him so much of Morgana’s that he nearly dropped his glass.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you go after my sister,” Ben had said, laughing, and Merlin remembers a solid clap on the shoulder like they were old friends and hadn’t just met that morning.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin isn’t sure why he’d agreed to come to this stranger’s party, but then again, why did he do most things?</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers Ben leaving, and his eyes meeting the woman’s eyes across the room, the way they had looked hollow and aching. Merlin knew he had to speak with her, from that look. The look Morgana had given him so often, before he knew it would be his fault that she began to look for solace in darkness.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t remember how he got there, but he can clearly see the grimace masked as a polite smile that had graced her face when he approached.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers fumbling with his words. There was so much of Morgana in her eyes, so much of the warmth before the darkness took over.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Mercer,” he said finally, and she gave him a polite nod.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Rosalie.” She began to turn away. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin can’t remember how, but they ended up sitting in the garden with a bottle of wine between them and laughing like old friends. He hadn’t laughed in a long time, and the sound of their joined laughter, muffled so the rest of the party guests didn’t discover them, echoes in his ears as he hears Rosalie’s voice in his mind once again.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re here</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She sounds surprised, and Merlin feels a wave of guilt for what happened between them. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would I want to be anywhere else?” he says pleasantly, like there isn’t sticky lake mud coating his shoes from when he stands too long in one place and the air isn’t threatening to suffocate him with memories of his dead loved ones. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You were pretty quick to get rid of me last time I saw you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin pinches his fingers together. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I couldn’t stop you from being married, Rose,” he says quietly, and when he hears her laughter, it’s like a metal rod being jabbed through his brain. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You could’ve proposed. You could’ve taken me far away from him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin’s feet have sunk far enough into the wet sand that when he pulls his foot up to take a step, the resulting squelch is enough to distract him from her voice. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I couldn’t have,” he insists gently, more convincing himself than her, but when he takes a step forward, his gentle tone does nothing to placate her scream.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You let him take me away! Away from everything I cared about!</span>
  </em>
  <span> she cries, and Merlin feels his eyes burn. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t know your ship would go down. I couldn’t have known.” As he steps forward, her words turn bitter.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But if you had been there, you would’ve been able to keep us safe! You could’ve repaired the mast and stopped the storm and put all that water back in the sea where it belonged!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin lets logic take over and attaches himself to her statement. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not real,” he says simply. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course I’m real</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the not-Rose’s voice replies in a yell, and Merlin stops walking, if only to have a moment to himself to think.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Rosie had no idea about my magic. She never would have said that to me.” And for a moment, he feels better. It’s like he’s cracked the code on a safe and the door has swung open in a satisfying arc after he’d spent hours banging on it uselessly. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The feeling starts to fade as soon as not-Rose speaks again.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Doesn’t mean what I’m saying isn’t true</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she says in a sing-song voice. She’s mocking him, whatever she is, and Merlin starts to realize he has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He begins to run, and with every step, his head aches with the sound of Rose’s screams. With Jon, the screaming had stopped after Merlin went far enough, so he just keeps running and running and running in hopes that maybe, just maybe he can outrun her.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And when her voice breaks off in the middle of a word, he keeps running. He locks his magic down tight inside himself and runs until he can’t breathe or think or understand anything the voices are saying. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They come faster now, one voice after another, blending together as flickers of memory color the dark water surrounding him. His name, so many of his names, are screamed around him as he keeps running, keeps pushing, until his heart is begging him to stop but he won’t stop because if he stops he will never start again.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The voices get jumbled and confusing and he can’t tell what’s happening. Snippets of memories, guilt pulling him in a million directions. Names, names, so many names, faces blurring in his mind, and the memories are not a comfort anymore they’re a burden and they’re suffocating him and he’s going to collapse under the weight of them and they’re calling him so many names he’s gone by so many names he can hardly remember who he is or what these faces are and all he wants to do is turn back or better yet just join them in the water so they can see, so they can see he’s just Merlin and he’s suffering so much, too.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And then a soft </span>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin </span>
  </em>
  <span>cuts through all the noise, and Merlin finally stops running. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The air changes, and everything is different.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Gwen,” he whispers back, his breath coming in great, heaving gasps as his exhausted muscles shake. And he knows it isn’t her, that none of this has been anyone, not really, but his magic hears his name in Gwen’s voice and bursts out of him joyfully. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He falls to his knees as he can’t help but remember.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He can remember burning. Aching, cracking, burning all the way down his throat. He’d just spent two weeks screaming and crying and yelling at the gods, and he knew if he tried to speak, his voice would crack and wane and give way to a river of blood.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers thinking this because Gwen’s dress was red where she stood by the window of the chambers she and Arthur shared. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur, who was gone. Arthur, who had left him.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>There was an unsheathed sword on the table, and the sight made Merlin’s eyes burn the same way his throat did, so he covered his mouth with his forearm to choke back a sob.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Gwen must have heard him and turned around, because somehow she came to his side and he must have said something or else he didn’t have to because he sunk to the ground and Gwen began crying and fell into his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The only words he can remember are </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He was apologizing, over and over, for crying and for not saving Arthur and for never telling her before. Gwen must have told him to be quiet because he stopped talking and she pulled away to look into his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Soft brown. Warm. Red rimmed already, like she’d been crying for weeks. Because she probably knew in her heart the moment Arthur died the same way Merlin did.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Her hands were soft on his face. Nothing like they were when she was a servant. She was a good queen. Merlin pushed her and Arthur together and then he’d cleaved them apart. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Gwen was saying how she’s proud of him and so glad he’s her friend and is alright, and that they’ll see Arthur again, but all Merlin can remember thinking is that Arthur was not at peace and not resting and because they were tied together he will never be at rest. For a moment Merlin thought she knew about the prophecy as she wiped his tears away. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But no, she meant they’ll see each other in the afterlife, and Merlin didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d kept Arthur from finding peace</span>
  <em>
    <span>. I always was a headache to him when he was alive, guess I still am now that he’s dead</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he could have joked, but trying to speak would have only made his vocal chords burn.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And so he and Gwen sat in a tearful embrace on the floor of the chambers Arthur would never come back to, the unearthly silence echoing in his mind. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It’s so warm, the way she says it, and Merlin has to fight every instinct to not turn to the water and jump into her arms. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Gwen.” He tastes salt on his lips when he says it, and her presence feels comforting instead of haunting as he wipes away tears. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Back in Camelot. That’s what the change in the air is. The scent feels familiar, like it’s from a dream Merlin can’t quite remember. He can hear Gwen’s smile when she replies, and the urge to turn to her is even stronger.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s time, isn’t it?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He lets out a wet laugh. “Yes. It’s time.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The little light sweeps over his body before hovering in front of his nose. This isn’t Gwen, it seems to chide, this isn’t really her. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But it feels like her, and Merlin isn’t ready to get off the ground just yet.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You could just stay with me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Gwen says sweetly, and Merlin shakes his head resolutely. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve failed before. I will not fail this, not after so much time.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>If Gwen really were there, Merlin knows disappointment would be dulling her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The thought is enough for him to pull himself off the ground. He takes a breath, then a small step. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve forced me to be alone for so long. The least you could do is keep me company for awhile</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The change in tone is so sharp that even though he expects it, Merlin winces. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“No. You never resented me for that. You told me it was alright. You found another to love.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The laugh in his mind is cruel. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That was before I languished here a thousand years.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And even if he knows it can’t be the truth, it makes Merlin feel sick.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You were happy with Leon.” He’s lost his rhythm, and he’s afraid if he tries to run again, he’ll collapse. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I was never happy after you let Arthur die</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she yells, and the shrill fury in her voice is enough to catalyze Merlin’s running because he knows Gwen would never yell at him like that and whatever is yelling does not have good intentions. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The little light seems pleased with him as it whizzes on ahead, and Merlin pretends it’s the only thing in the entire world that matters. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>His magic feels more alive than it has in centuries, and Merlin thinks that if he tries to contain it, it will burn him from the inside out. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Gwen’s cries are replaced with another deceivingly soft voice, and Merlin’s magic swells. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers warm metal in his hand, the engraving well known to his dexterous fingers. He held it tightly against his chest, pretending the heartbeat thumping against it was Arthur’s and not his. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>There are tiny dents in the wall next to his bed, Merlin remembers thinking numbly, wondering briefly how they got there, his eyes tracing the light upturns of wood over and over until the wood is blurry in his memory.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t changed his clothes for far too long. He’d stayed there in bed, lying atop his blankets like a useless child for far too long. He remembers the way food hardly seemed worth the effort anymore, especially since it wasn’t like he could die of starvation.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He can remember the sound of his door creaking well, from the decade he spent pulling it open and closed and trying to sneak out. He remembers hoping it was an assassin, armed with a blade forged in dragon’s breath, and feeling oddly disappointed when it was Leon that called his name. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Leon had begged him to get out of bed, saying something angry about self-pity and wasting away. Something about how badly Gwen needed him.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin said something about Leon only being there because Gwen was sad, and Leon said something about friends grieving together. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t remember much else in the conversation, except for the end of it.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“It would break his heart to see you like this,” Leon had said quietly, and the numbness that had enslaved Merlin for the six months since Arthur’s death had cracked for an instant. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Then he should have held on a little longer. We were—we were so close and he gave up.” The tears spilled out. “He left me. He—he knew and he abandoned me.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers the stewing of anger and grief and bitterness boil over inside him.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur loved you more than he was ever able to tell you. I can promise you he held on as long as he could.”  </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“If he loved me, he would’ve held on longer.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Leon.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And he keeps moving no matter how badly he wants to stay and speak to his friend. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re going to get Arthur, aren’t you? To take Gwen away from me?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin knows that the voices just want to make him angry, make him hurt, so he stays with them, but it still makes his heart ache to hear such a thing from such a kind man. “Nobody could ever make Gwen do anything she didn’t want to, Leon.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She never truly loved me because you gave her hope that Arthur would return</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Gwen loved you,” Merlin says sharply, because she did. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And yet you let her lose me like she lost Arthur</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Gwen told me not to try anything I’d regret,” he hisses back, </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We spent so many years together. Did our friendship mean so little to you that you wouldn’t go behind our backs? But we weren’t like Arthur, nobody was good enough for you after Arthur,</span>
  </em>
  <span> the voice screams, but Merlin grits his teeth and continues forward.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“The real Leon would never say this,” Merlin says more to himself than the voice, and the Leon in his head is laughing when he disappears.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Mum,” he whispers, half-reverently, and half in fear of what weapons she will pull on him. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>For some reason, he thinks less of a memory than a scene. Sitting outside, watching his mother balance on the roof as she rewove the pieces he’d caused to fly out during a nightmare. It’s hardly a happy scene, his mother concentrating and guilt creeping through him for causing the trouble, but there’s also a sense of pride in it. That his mother was always so strong.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My darling boy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she murmurs when he stops, but as soon as he starts again, her voice turns sharp. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How could you abandon me, for all those years</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Conversing with the voices has made them more bearable so far, but Merlin knows if he tries to talk, he’ll break down into tears.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You were always so busy with your destiny that you forgot about your mother. Do you know what it was like for me? To have a child out of wedlock, and raise him alone? Do you understand how difficult that was? And you repaid me by forgetting about me once something better came along</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Each jab hits harder than the last, and Merlin feels like he’s gotten lost inside himself, stumbling through the darkness until he can catch a glimpse of what is worth going on for. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You won’t even look at me now, you useless fool</span>
  </em>
  <span>! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Look at me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she screams, </span>
  <em>
    <span>look at me!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>His magic wants to sing in apology, to beg for her forgiveness, and just before he gives in to the urge to stop, she fades away. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Crunch-thump, crunch-thump, crunch-thump. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He can remember the rhythmic motion of chopping through stems on Gaius’ workbench. The movement is still engrained in Merlin today, the gentle press of the knife, back to front, back to front. He can still smell the lavender masking the odor of whatever he had been working on at the time. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers Gaius on his bed, gazing out into the distance with glassy eyes, and for an awful moment, Arthur’s eyes replaced Gaius’ and a wave of grief crashed through Merlin. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It had been two years, and somehow, everything still felt raw, like he had a nerve exposed and no one had bothered to help it heal.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It’s unfair to phrase it like that, he knew, since everyone else had been grieving. But with Gwaine gone and Arthur missing and Merlin half-losing his mind and then Merlin being appointed Court Sorcerer, no one quite understood how to treat him. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And it was okay, of course, he was doing okay. Sure, he woke up every morning with a gaping wound where the other half of him was meant to be, and he may or may not have imagined Arthur’s voice in his head far too often for it to be normal, and he may have thought about retrieving Excalibur from the lake of Avalon and joining Arthur so he doesn’t have to wait anymore a little too often for it to be healthy.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But he was fine. He’s fine.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers the knife suddenly biting down on his finger and pulling it back with a wince and small curse. Gaius didn’t move on his bed, and as Merlin wrapped his finger in a cloth and watched him, he knew the end was soon.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The bed creaked as he sat, old and sad and not used to the additional weight Merlin provided. Gaius’ hand was cold in his own, he remembers, old and calloused like only a physician’s could be. It hurt him that Gaius started slipping away so quickly. There was only so much he can do, even with magic, but he felt at peace with it.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Or maybe he just couldn’t process the idea that Gaius was going to die, he thinks in retrospect. That Gaius was going to die, that everyone he’d ever known is going to die as well. Maybe he had shut himself off from feeling anything after Arthur.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers panicked breaths, tears rushing to his eyes, more out of instinct than anything since he couldn’t quite feel sad. He remembers the thought taking hold of his throat and gripping him tightly, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing until he knew he was going to die before he had a chance to lose anyone else. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He feels the same way now, the pain of the voices building up around him, a chorus for the back of his mind, until they’re trickling down the back of his throat along with the tears and drowning him as he stands, frozen, on the path.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>His magic surges protectively, looking for the threat, looking for a problem to fix, but instead it finds the aching emptiness inside of him. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t think I don’t know what you did,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Gaius says firmly, more like he’s reprimanding Merlin for stealing a piece of chicken than what he actually did, so Merlin decides he can stand for a moment and catch his breath. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Leaving Camelot to fend for herself</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he tuts. The little light flashes in warning, and Merlin pulls his hands off his thighs and straightens his back. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I did what I thought was best,” he says calmly, then takes a quick breath and breaks into a steady jog. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You abandoned Camelot! You broke your word to me!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin keeps running. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Gwen needed you! Her children needed you! And you left them behind for years in order to make yourself feel better!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin keeps running. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>As Gaius prattles on in his half-mad roar, Merlin begins humming Arthur’s song again. It’s funny, that he calls it Arthur’s song even though he’d only heard Arthur sing it once. All the other knights had probably sung it a hundred times, but it was only ever the once with Arthur. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur, who he is going to be with soon.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The thought isn’t quite enough to drown out Gaius in his mind, but it makes everything a little bit easier.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere among the names and faces and angry accusations, Merlin realizes that there can’t be more than a handful of people left. The thought that Arthur might be close makes his magic sing with anticipation. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He is at once so weary that he might fall to the ground and sleep forever and the most awake he’s been in 1500 years. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>1500 years. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He allows himself to stop for a moment as the thought latches onto the part of his brain not being yelled at in Gaius’ voice. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He’s spent years telling himself he hasn’t been counting. It’s a lie. He’s counted every damn day he was left to wait. Every day a little more magic faded from the world and flocked to him, like he could protect it from disappearing. Every day the world turned more foreign, more unrecognizable, Merlin has counted.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Gaius’ voice is replaced by Gwaine’s, and Merlin begins to cry as his magic leaps out of him, searching for the friend he has missed so desperately. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Like with his mother, there’s no specific moment he remembers. It’s all loud laughs and goofy smiles and arms thrown around his shoulder like there’s nowhere else they belongs. Merlin remembers quiet evenings when Gwaine joined him at Gaius’, watching him cook up salves and potions with his head resting on his arms, laughing as he tried to copy Merlin’s movements.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He can remember the moment he learned Gwaine was dead. His throat was raw from weeks of yelling at the sky, and he could barely stand with the weight of his grief. He was sitting in Gauis’ chambers, eyes fixed on a leaky patch of roof, when Percival had knocked softly.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin remembers Percival telling him, saying Morgana got to him, they were trying to make it right, and the worst of it is that he didn’t really care. Not in the shadow of Arthur, not when everything he understood had been torn away on the whim of a twisted version of destiny.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t even cry when Percival handed him one of Gwaine’s gloves. Merlin had tossed it onto the table and slipped back into his numb daze. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Before you ask, there aren’t any taverns ‘round when you’re dead</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It sounds so much like Gwaine that Merlin can perfectly imagine turning back to find Gwaine grinning at him and tackling his foolish friend in a giant hug. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“That must be terrible for you,” Merlin says, even though he knows responding will only make it more difficult to leave. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>1500 years sober, gotta be some kind of record</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin laughs against his will, tasting tears on his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I bet it is.” He lingers for a moment before taking a shaky breath. “I know you’re not really Gwaine—”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You always were clever, weren’t you?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“—but I damn well wish you were.” The continuance makes the voice quiet for a moment, like it’s entering uncertain terrain. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wouldn’t have thought you cared, considering you didn’t give me half a thought when I died.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And even if this isn’t really Gwaine, an awful sense of guilt washes over Merlin. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your precious Arthur died, so you didn’t have time to care that I was gone</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin wants to protest, but he knows it’s true. The Gwaine in his head starts to feel real. Merlin can’t get himself to move on. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You always chose him over me. Even when he treated you like dirt. He always came first.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin’s feet feel stuck to the muddy ground. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Even now, you’re going to leave me to find Arthur. As if he’s thought about you once since he died. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur. Right. Arthur. Merlin has to move. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he winces as he takes a small step forward, and it pains him when Gwaine begs him not to go. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He repeats the apology on every step like a prayer. It feels like an age passes before Gwaine’s shouting stops. His lungs feel ragged, like someone has taken an axe to them and left his flesh in mangled pieces. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin doesn’t have time for this. “If I promise to walk slowly, will you not shout at me?” he snaps, and the Lancelot in his head laughs warmly. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Alright. If you wish</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a step forward, and for the first time, the voice sharing his head doesn’t scream at him to stop. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>If all he’s had to do is ask nicely this whole time, he is going to demand a refund. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Besides Arthur, his magic has always liked Lance best. Maybe it’s because Lance knew from practically the beginning, maybe it’s because of their shared conspiratorial smiles, or because Lancelot was the first person in Camelot that understood him. Regardless of the reason, it begs to be set free so Merlin might bask in the memory of his friend.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Why aren’t you yelling, like the others?” Merlin finally asks when he’s walked awhile in silence. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You were the one who asked me to be quiet</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Would the rest of them been quiet if I’d asked?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the voice says, but it doesn’t elaborate. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He walks on for a few minutes in silence, but with every step, the desire to stop and </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk</span>
  </em>
  <span> gnaws at him with such fierce intensity that Merlin has to assume the silence is its own specialized kind of hell. After all the yelling and screaming and crying pounding in his head, he would have expected the silence to be a nice reprieve. Instead, the air feels suffocating as the little light bounces gently a few feet ahead of him.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It should have been you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the voice of Lancelot suddenly says into the quiet of Merlin’s mind, the words sounding forced and a little breathless, like it’s the only chance he’ll have to say them.  </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“What should have been me?” Merlin asks, but it’s silly of him. He knows the answer. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At the veil</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the voice replies anyway, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you should have been the one to go through.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span> And out of everything he expects himself to say—that it wasn’t his time, that he would’ve done anything in his power to stop Lancelot from going through—he instead whispers, “I sometimes wish it had been.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Lancelot’s voice gives a little sigh, but it’s gone before Merlin can hear its reply. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Chills run down his spine as the soft lull of Lancelot’s voice drifts out of his mind and is replaced with the bright lilt of Morgana’s. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t sound like a woman who spent the last desperate years of her life trying to get revenge for all the ways she was wronged by her family and her kingdom. No, this sounds like the Morgana from before. Before her magic left her terrified, before Uther’s harshness toward her turned cruel, before Morgause offered her the acceptance she had so badly needed. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Merlin chokes out, and he stops again. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And whether it’s on the defensive or recognizing a kindred soul, his magic pushes out of him before there’s any way for him to stop it. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He can remember the way Morgana had grinned at him when she thought he liked Gwen, the way her eyes sparkled when she argued with Arthur over silly things. The way she’d told him she was going to Ealdor to help his mother, how she’d asked quiet questions about magic over the body of the sleeping Druid boy that would one day destroy their lives.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>How she’d been so helpless and scared and alone and how Merlin had handed her over to destiny so thoughtlessly. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>How he’d poisoned her instead of helping her, how the light in her eyes faded when he cried holding her instead of just explaining what was going on. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>How it was his fault, everything she became. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he says again through tears, and he hates that this isn’t her, that she’s dead and he’ll never be able to take back everything that happened between them. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You think I could forgive you for everything you’ve done</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Morgana asks him, and Merlin knows that he can’t. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“It was all my fault,” Merlin whispers, and he forgets everything about why he’s here. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You never thought things through far enough. Every time you tried to outrun destiny, you just played right into its hand. You’re a fool, Merlin</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin laughs emptily. “I know that, Morgana. Gods, I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You did everything wrong then.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” he repeats. Before she can reply, he remembers why he is here and begins walking again. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Do you think you won’t do everything wrong this time?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope not.” It’s an honest answer, and he can hear her laugh in his head. It isn’t the cold, manic laugh from the later Morgana. This laugh is soft, like flowing water. Merlin hasn’t heard it in so long that it feels like he’s been punched in the gut.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>By talking to me, you’re doing this wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin is just glad she isn’t yelling yet. “I’m still walking, aren’t I?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve barely moved three steps since I came</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>For an instant, panic flares in Merlin’s gut when he realizes he stopped moving. Then he shoves it down and keeps walking. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>This time, the voice returns angry.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You really think, after all this time, you even remember how to be Emrys? You failed at it then; what’s to stop you from failing now?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The words are plucking at every exposed nerve Merlin has, so he presses his groaning legs into the ground and starts to run again. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep going, keep going, keep going,” he mutters on his exhales, even if he can’t hear himself over the sound of Morgana’s yells. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And even when the voice changes and it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Balinor</span>
  </em>
  <span> and every inch of him screams to stop, to stay, that they had so little time together and now they can have all the time in the damn world, he keeps going. He lets the burn of his muscles obliterate any voice in his head and keeps pressing on, and on, and on.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You let me die</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he screams, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you could’ve saved me, I’m your father!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He ignores him until the words blur together and they’re just noises. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Then it’s Will, but not </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> Will. There’s no warm laughter or snappy comebacks, just screaming and wailing and </span>
  <em>
    <span>how could you choose him over me?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Then it’s every voice at once, and his head is no longer his own. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Look at us</span>
  </em>
  <span>, they beg him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>just once. Just one last memory</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He promises himself it’s just for an instant, but then he turns his head and his eyes are stuck looking. The figures beyond the wall are so far away that he can barely see them. He takes a step closer, like he’s being pulled in on a fishing line.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They get clearer, and he sees Will and Lancelot and Gwaine and Morgana and Balinor and Lancelot is extending a hand to him. All he has to do is reach past the wall an inch, and he will be able to grasp Lancelot’s hand. The little light returns, waving in front of his nose desperately, half-blinding him. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Come on, Merlin, you deserve to rest</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But the voices in his head waver for an instant when the light bumps against his temple, and Merlin remembers that this isn’t Lancelot. This isn’t really Lancelot, or Gwaine, or Balinor, or Will, or Morgana, and he has to get out of here. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Why is he here? For some reason he’s still reaching, and the faces in the wall flicker. The five shadows are slowly joined by more and more and more until it looks like an army has amassed, just behind the wall. An army of people he has lost and he needs to make things right with so they don’t hate him in death.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>These are not his friends. These are not his friends. These are not his friends.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>His head becomes a little less fuzzy, and the faces of his friends transform into something gruesome, something half-decayed.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>With a burst of energy, Merlin pulls his hand away and stumbles backwards. Pulling his eyes away has made him feel like his lungs are filling with sand and everything hurts and now the voices are back, all at once, at full force, and he runs with everything left in him to the light peeking out ahead. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The blue light urges him on, and he pretends it’s just the light he’s running towards and the future of Albion isn’t riding on the next few moments.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And then he’s stumbling, stumbling past the voices and the cries and the hands reaching for what they can never touch as the ground turns pliant beneath his feet. He’s falling before he can stop himself. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And then he’s on the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>At first, he thinks it’s the same sand shifting through his fingers that makes his eyes burn like he’s set them aflame, but when he looks up, he realizes it’s the orange twilight pouring over him like rainfall.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He has made it. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Should I continue? I already have a lot of part two and the actual reunion written (bc let's be real-that's what we're here for), but let me know what you think in the comments!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>